Sunday, December 12, 2010

Circular Roots

Blog post # 140:

Unturning Interval

Of Gouging Flatness


It seems appropriate that "poem" is an anagram of "mope".


Plexidoxa = the body of all argument and debate intentionally or unintentionally confusing with its use of overly complicated or extraneous logic or rhetoric.

As in, "Sarah Palin never engages in plexidoxa, although she is a confusing speaker nonetheless."

This word is a synonym of an already existing word, I am certain. But I can't right now remember what that word is. In any case, synonyms aren't against the law. And also, my word has less negative connotation than I think the older word has. A political conservative would likely never refer to the reports of climate-scientists as being plexidoxa, for instance. Although a progressive might.


New poll! No. New polls!

Poll # 1:

What is the root of all evil, in your opinion?

Some say it's money. Maybe it is simply religion, some would say. Or maybe it is sex -- after all, if there was no sex, then there would be no people to be evil. Maybe it is free will, then. But is it is free will, then controlling everyone's mind to end evil would itself be evil. Or maybe it is the need for pleasure, since committing evil acts can be pleasurable for the evil-doers (but not always). What do you think is the root of all evil?


Free will
The Mind
Something Else
There Is No Evil


Poll 2:

If former US president GW Bush and current American president BH Obama got in a fight, who would win?

Both Bush and Obama are in relatively good physical shape for their ages. I think that either is capable of fighting dirty, but I suspect that Obama would completely give in the second Bush pokes him in the eyes. Then, after Obama cries "uncle", Bush would knee Obama in the groin hard.

What do you say?

GW Bush
BH Obama


Finally, finally.
Poem, written today.

Bubbles Dripping

Drooping droplets, as petals
of alternating alternation,
They drip, becoming
one soapbubble, as reoccurring
Emptiness within both liquid
and again in air.
They taste of bitter sap.
And they fill with
Dimensions and beauty
and void. Then they
Rest upon their longitudes and
hang from
That weird but finite and
barren staff. Oh, they
Must be destined to explode
and vanish into
Simply droplets of
a poisonous mist. They must
Be tempted to flee from
their existence and truth,
Then hide within
their nothingness inside them,
Inside their temporary
and interrupted
Permanency. Oh,
of droplets and bubbles, such
Roundness is dampened
by chaos' salve. But
In this sipped drink
onto which we spit, there
Is but the foam and froth
of contingency.
Yes, there are there but
bubbles dripping into
The spiteful drunkenness
of our placidness,
Into the pleasant water
of our own bursting.



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